To our dear baby as you turn three:

I don't know where you came from but you have got me wrapped around your finger. This is trouble for me, I know, but forgive me, I am a Mama who loves babies. Your growing pains have been felt in your sibings, yourself, and me and Dad. Getting weaned, dry nights, getting your own cup, making your bed-- these have been hurdles that you cleared this year! Now onto literacy, onto friendship, onto strollerless hikes, your own library card!

At the beginning of Winter, at Family Swim, you would cling to our necks and fuss if I had to even shift you onto my hip to carry you in the water rather than have you face-to-face, you a 25 pound necklace. And now, you are the bell of the ball at your swim class. You refuse to wear the bubble, says it hurts your belly. When I recommended you wear your one-piece, you gave me lip service and packed the bikini in your lunch bag. You swim only aided by the barbell. And if I reach for you, you turn and swim swiftly away. The turning, the quick little kicks you do in the water are wonderful. I wear my goggles and watch you underwater: a wiggling mermaid with caramel skin and a polka-dot ruffle skirt as a fin-tail. Then your hands, oh my, the painted nails under water, doing the "ice cream scoop" stroke!

I am savoring this time when I have a tidy little rhythm with you-- play dough, watch Bible Songs, cut fruit for snack, load laundry. Or going to the Y, the library, the thrift store. Our serene little days, our pacts (Gumballs for behaving in the hardware store. A teeny Hagen Dazs of her own at Shop Rite if you sits in the seat. All-you-can eat cheezits at daily Mass.)

My voice is the major chord that you hear in the world. And I know that it won't be like this forever: Manny has adopted his teacher's Philly accent. Benicio's life goal is a game-system. Clara idolizes her teacher who drives a purple car and lives in a pink house. I am relishing the one-on-oneness of our time together. When it was just Manny and me during our days-- I thought he was made of glass. Now, with a sort-of do-over, I see that neither of us is made of glass. We are made of sturdy stuff, and when you wrap your arms around my neck, I am saying, Baby, I got you.